A Wisp Of A Heart Left Behind
by PerfectingSilence
Summary: Sherlock saved him the day they first met. John remembers it vividly, remembers the exact moment he first thought "I'm going to be okay." Remembers acknowledging that the only reason for that was the detective. Yes, Sherlock saved him the day they first met. But Sherlock also broke him the day he said goodbye.


**_Title: A Wisp Of A Heart Left Behind_**

_**Rating: T**_

_**Trigger Warnings: Depression, Death (prior to story's beginning), PTSD**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock (That would be BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle), nor do I own the characters. This story is for strictly entertainment purposes, I'm making no profit off this.**_

_**A/N: This story is like my child now, and I love it with all my heart. It's taken me a very, very long time to finish, but I'm extremely proud of how it turned out. Especially the ending, that may be one of my favorite pieces I've ever written. Basically, I hope you all like it (enjoy would probably be the wrong word, considering its content). Originally I'd planned for a sequel, but now I'm not entirely sure. So, if you'd like one leave a comment and I'll see if I can figure something out. I'm not going to put an author's note at the end, because I feel it will take away from the ending, so I'm going to say it all up here. Thank you so much for reading. Feel free to favorite, review, and all that wonderful stuff. I really appreciate it. Love you guys, and again, thanks.**_

"_Goodbye, John."_

John bolts up in bed. Screams. He can still see the remnants of the dream of a memory. Can still see the coat billowing behind the man he loves as he falls, nothing to be done to stop it. John screams, screams for Sherlock, because he needs him, and he's not there, never will be again.

He's nothing now, six feet under, a black gravemarker signalling his final resting place for eternity.

John screams, long and hard into the night. Over and over again. Because he doesn't know what to do, how to handle it. He didn't know he would ever need to figure it out. Of course, a part of him did, but he didn't think it would be so _soon, _he didn't think it would end like _this._ It wasn't _supposed_ to end like _this._ But it has, and John cannot cope with that. How is he supposed to? How is he expected to deal with losing the only one who kept him whole, who had been keeping him whole?

Sherlock saved him the day they first met. John remembers it vividly, remembers the exact moment he first thought "I'm going to be okay." Remembers acknowledging that the only reason for that was the detective. Yes, Sherlock saved him the day they first met. But Sherlock also broke him the day he said goodbye.

Broke him into a million jagged pieces. Splintered him into edges that cannot be fit back together, can only be taken apart more and more and more until eventually there is nothing left of him to break. Someday, that day will approach him, and John's not entirely sure he won't welcome it, because nothingness has to be less painful than the torture he endures every second of his current life. _Existence._ How can he call it a life when he is not really living?

He doesn't know how to move on. You'd think he would, having dealt with everything in his life; Afghanistan, the deaths of his war friends. But he doesn't.

The PTSD is only worse now. It wasn't that bad before, when it was only for the war, granted by no means pleasant. A nightmare every now and then, but he didn't much fear the war the way some of his friends did. For a while he missed it, even, before he was saved. He longed for the danger. So, war PTSD was never really John's problem. But now he suffers a new form of the disease. A wicked, cruel form that's twisted it's way into his heart, just like the man that's put it there. Twisted its way into his dreams every night, the same scene playing over and over again in his mind whenever he shuts his eyes.

He's got every detail memorized to a tee. Can recite every little fact about that day. The day his entire world shattered.

Sherlock's skull wasn't the only thing that broke when he hit the concrete. For with it, he broke his blogger as well. Broke his heart. He knows he'll never be able to love again, not the way he loved Sherlock, not really in any form at all, save for his family and Mrs. Hudson. He broke his soul. He'll never recover from the images that haunt him. He broke his _mind._ No longer can the war veteran _think._ He's not sure if he wants to. By destroying himself, Sherlock Holmes also destroyed John Watson.

The only difference, is Sherlock got to escape with the fall, and John, poor Watson, he was left behind to clean up the mess. He got stuck with the impossible task of putting himself back together, mending what can not be fixed, what will _never_ be fixed again. How is he supposed to do that alone?

He can't, that's the point. John knows that the other man must have thought of that, at least once. He thought of everything. There's no way he could have overlooked the fact he'd be leaving a broken man behind.

John doesn't know what to do. It overwhelms him and so he screams. Mrs. Hudson has the courtesy to never mention it, but he knows she can hear. He knows half of the street can probably hear. Still, Mrs. Hudson never says anything and he's grateful for that. He hopes she can tell how grateful he is for that. How grateful he is for everything she's done for him.

He's gotten the police called on him twice before because of his midnight yelling. The first time was the night of Sherlock's death. He spent that night in their flat, screaming bloody murder for the first time in his adult life, screaming until his throat was raw. Bits of it dry and bleeding from overuse.

Eventually, someone finally called the authorities, and they came pounding on the door. John didn't answer them, too busy breaking down to bother, or even notice. Too busy properly expressing on the outside what he'd been feeling on the inside for hours. The police would have broken the door down to get into the flat, surely, had Mrs. Hudson not been there to let them into 221b with the spare key.

She unlocked the door; they came in. And what a sight to see it must have been, Dr. John Watson collapsed in on himself in the middle of their livingroom - _his_ livingroom - sobbing his eyes out, the majority of the screams now caught in his throat like sand-paper. Completely shutting down, inside and out. Hands, forcefully pulling at his hair, so hard it was painful. But it was nothing compared to the excruciating agony from where the shards of his heart pierced through his flesh and left wounds that would never sew themselves together, that _he_ would never have the ability to sew together.

The police weren't sure how to handle it, but they did know that John was connected to Scotland Yard, so that's who they called. Lestrade wasn't particularly shocked by the call. Of course the doctor had broken down. That was no surprise, was it? And so, when he arrived at the flat that would never be as he remembered it, he was calm and prepared. He was met with silence walking in, save for a quiet, "He's being completely unresponsive."

John had ceased his screaming by that point. It had been around 45 minutes since he'd begun it. He continued to sob as Lestrade thanked and dismissed the officers, before falling entirely silent in a decrescendo of mourning. He said nothing, made no sounds except for the occasional sniffle. Just stopped. That scared Lestrade more than his previous state had. The detective had no clue what to do, because what do you say to someone who's so broken, who's just lost everything? What can you do to make it alright when the only thing that can make it alright, can't? Isn't there, and furthermore unable to do so.

Greg doesn't think there's anything he can do to even slightly ease John's pain, but he tries. He doesn't lie; he cannot sit down, kneel beside his friend's broken form and say things like "It'll be okay" and "Everything will be alright" because he knows it won't be and _John_ knows it won't be, and frankly, Lestrade can't bear the thought of lying. Lying to this destroyed man on the ground in front of him. He doesn't have the heart (or lack thereof?), doesn't have what it takes. And it wouldn't work anyways, so what's the point?

Instead, he sits down on the floor next to John and stays quiet, knowing the unnecessary words wouldn't be answered even if he did choose to say them aloud. The two men sit there, John staring off at a fixed point in the elaborate wallpaper. Still, absolutely still, save for the breathing his lungs are making him do and the occasional blink of his eyes. Lestrade isn't quite as still, but not exceptionally full of movement either.

Eventually, he knows he has to say something, because the silence has slowly become too much and he can't handle it any longer. So, sticking with his inability to lie, he decides not to say anything meaningful, and instead opts for, "I'm going to fetch you some tea, mate."

He gets up, makes said tea, and sets a mug of it next to John. He still doesn't respond. Lestrade takes a sip of his own beverage, at a loss of what to do. But he dares not say anything about that, because he knows the other man is even more lost, and the detective inspector knows he doesn't have the right to complain by any means. Never would he. If any one did have the right to mention being lost, it would be John Watson and _only_ John Watson, but he won't, because he isn't speaking.

Lestrade is worried he's going to go into shock, and out of pure terror at the thought, he checks the doctor's pulse. It's fine. As is his temperature, as is his breathing. Everything is fine. Physically, that is. Mentally, Lestrade knows "fine" is the exact opposite of what his friend is. Anyone could tell that much just by looking at the man.

About an hour later, Lestrade replaces the cold cup with a fresh, warm one (it's the thought that counts) and grabs his coat off the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He knows the flat is under surveillance, otherwise there's no way he'd leave John alone, not knowing the full extent of what he might be capable of like this. For a moment, he wonders if he should say something to John before his departure, but ultimately decides against it and leaves, closing the door behind him and heading down the stairs.

He pauses and knocks on Mrs. Hudson's door. She answers more quickly than he'd expected her to. Her eyes are rimmed red and it was obvious she'd been crying.

"Hello, ma'am. I just came from upstairs and wanted to inform you the door is unlocked."

"Thank you dear. I'll be sure to take care of that."

Lestrade nods. And, as almost an afterthought, adds, "I'm sorry for your loss. I know you two were close."

It's her turn to nod now. "He was a son to me." She takes a deep breath to keep from crying and looks up the stairs. "If anythings happens with him," she looks back over at Lestrade, "I'll be sure to call."

"Thank you."

He isn't quite sure how she's gotten his number, but the logical assumption is that either Sherlock or John gave it to her, the latter, most likely. A smart move on their part. It would have doubled as an extra security measure for all three of them, a much needed "just in case" should her or the boys have ended up needing one. _One of them still might need it,_ he thinks grimly.

* * *

The second time the cops are called because of his screaming, it's about three months or so after that. Considering everything, John felt as though he was handling things well. But when the cops again come knocking at the flat's door, he knows not everyone agrees with him.

About a week after the fall, Lestrade tried to convince him to see a professional, but he bluntly refused. What could a stranger possibly do to help him, besides prescribe him a large enough quantity of drugs to make him forget everything?

He'd thought about taking that route, briefly, before realising it would never be a legitimate option in his mind. Right after the fall he even debated finding one of Sherlock's old dealers. That thought was dismissed from his brain almost immediately. What would the other think if his desperation resorted him to drug use, the same method of illegal injection John had once been so shocked to hear about his friend using, and then, so heartbroken to _see_ him using. No, he wouldn't do that, pour salt into the wound of Sherlock's memory.

Still, getting a prescription seemed like a workable option, until he realized it wouldn't be that simple. Things like that rarely are. He'd be required to attend at least one therapy session before getting his much wanted medication. He was in no way ready to talk about his feelings with someone who wouldn't even begin to comprehend them.

His stance was strong, and he refused to give in. So did Lestrade, however, and it only took a week or so of arguing before he used John's phone to call Mycroft when the blonde had left the room. As expected, the eldest - and now only - Holmes brother took the inspector's side, due to seeing via surveillance cameras the details of what John was going through. After the call had ended, Lestrade placed the phone in the exact place it was before, and hoped John hadn't heard the conversation.

Those hopes diminished when said man walked back into the flat's main room and said, casually, "When I should I be expecting Mycroft to stop by?"

"You did overhear that, then." It was more of a statement, but quickly blossomed into something of curiosity in Lestrade's mine upon hearing his friend's response.

"Not much of it, no. Just your goodbye." He crossed the room as he spoke and sat down in his chair.

"Then how did you know who I called?" Maybe the doctor had picked up more from Sherlock than he was letting on to.

"Simple. You were talking lower in volume than you normally do when you're on the phone. Obviously you were trying to be careful or secretive, probably both, actually. Combine that with the fact you used my phone to make the call. It's in the same position as before, nearly exactly, in fact. And yet, the top is facing the wrong way, you put it back facing the incorrect direction. You used my phone, but wanted to make it look as though you hadn't. You didn't want me to find out about the call.

"From there it was easy. Who would you feel the need to be secretive about calling, because you didn't want me to find out, and use my phone to do so, because yours doesn't have the number? Mycroft is the only one who really fits those guidelines, and you speaking with him makes absolute sense considering our current situation. To be fair though, I wasn't entirely certain it was him until you confirmed it by rhetorically asking me if I'd overheard the call."

Lestrade is shocked into silence. Throughout the entire conversation he watches John make his deductions in awe, because at that moment his friend is channeling Sherlock almost effortlessly. He wonders if he realizes it.

And he must, because when he sees the bewilderment he's caused, John quietly utters a, "Sorry", as if the brilliance is something to be ashamed of, something to apologize for.

"It's completely fine, John."

The man in question nods, looking down for a moment before clearing his throat.

"I do hope you know, the help, albeit unwelcome, is appreciated." John meets Lestrade's eyes.

"I know." The response is simple, entirely satisfactory, and the exact one the doctor was wishing for.

* * *

The next day, John decides to go grocery shopping, because he hasn't in too long and the kitchen is becoming embarrassingly low on edible items. He had opened the fridge that morning and found a jug of spoiled milk, a container of moldy _something_ he was afraid to open, and half of a jar of strawberry jam. Admittedly, he wasn't eating as much as he should, but even he could recognise that the fridge's contents, mixed with what little was in the cupboards - a variety of tea, some biscuits, the last three slices of bread, and two cans of soup that had been there so long he didn't remember buying them - wasn't enough to live on, and unless he planned to starve himself to death, he'd have to go out eventually.

After spending half an hour using the plethora of aisles and food options to distract himself from reality (in all honesty he couldn't care less what brand of eggs he got), John finds himself standing on the sidewalk, the store at his back and one of Mycroft's signature cars in front of him. He sighs, getting in the back seat.

"Can you at least stop at my flat first so I can put the food away before it spoils?"

He's not sure whether or not he's expecting them to agree to his request, but knows they must have when the car takes the route to his residence rather than Mycroft's. It takes him less than five minutes to get into the flat and put the new food products away, mostly because he throws the entire bag into the fridge to be sorted out later.

The car ride is silent and before, John would have felt awkward, but now he doesn't find himself caring much. When they arrive at their destination, John remains quiet and follows the man leading the way. He has a vague idea of how the conversation will most likely go and is dreading it immensely. However, he also wants to get it over with as quickly as possible so he can just go home. Make a meal for dinner he will barely eat and enjoy even less, watch crap telly for a little while, and then let the nightmares overtake him.

As the door to what appears to be one of the man's - most likely many - studies opens, John finds himself holding his breath. Slowly exhaling, which does its job of calming him, he steps into the room, and when Mycroft motions for him to, shuts the door behind him.

"Hello, John."

"Mycroft." He crosses the room and sits in the chair opposite the government official.

"I presume you know why you're here."

"I have my guesses."

"Such as?" Mycroft says it with a tone of nearly genuine curiosity, though he can't quite manage to make it seem entirely pleasant.

"Mainly, to convince me to see a therapist, per request of Detective Inspector Lestrade, because he's failed at it."

"Well, it seems your skills of deduction have improved."

"Seems so." The doctor does nothing to stop the hint of venom that's seeped its way into his voice. "I'm sure you'd prefer I not waste your time, so I'll put it bluntly: no."

"No?" An eyebrow is raised to accompany the question.

"I've no desire to see anyone regarding what I'm going through, nor do I believe I'll develop such desire any time soon. Thanks for your concern, really, but I don't need your help."

"Are you so sure about that?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Please, John. You know as well as I do I've put cameras all across your flat. Since Sherlock's death, you've gotten extremely low levels of sleep, haven't been eating properly, and have lost approximately a stone is a week and a half, which, just so you know, puts you at the low end of the healthy weight range for a man of your height and build. Lose any more weight and it will be considered technically unhealthy, something I'm sure you already know.

"In addition to what I've previously mentioned, you're suffering from frequent headaches and migraines, most likely due to the lack of sleep and nutrients as mentioned prior. The limp and hand tremor are back, although I suppose that's beyond your control. Combine that with the obvious signs of depression and the fact you've come dangerously close to a psychotic break multiple times. The latter being entirely possible for you, as you have experienced many of it's causes: losing a loved one, excessive stress, lack of sleep, not to mention your war service.

"Your health is slipping below the line of what's acceptable, especially given your profession of choice. I refuse to watch you deteriorate, and if I must force you into seeking help, so be it."

John isn't sure how to respond, so he takes a minute to ponder what's just been said. When he does figure out what to say, all the venom that was once there disappears, because now he isn't angry with Mycroft, he's curious.

"Why do you care about my health so much? Why are you trying to look out for me, because now it's pretty easy to see there's more to this than Lestrade asking for your help."

"... Because looking after you is my brother's last wish, and what kind of big brother would I be if I didn't give him his final request?"

This sends a volt of shock through John's body. He's flooded with a wave of questions and emotions, and has a hard time getting himself to see straight and focus.

"... Did you-"

"Speak with him? No I didn't. I had no clue what he was planning, that much I promise you. Had I, and I would have gotten him out of it, of course, whatever it took."

"Then how?"

"He was my little brother. You may have been the one closest to him since your meeting, however, and I don't mean to offend you, but I like to think I'll always be the one to understand him best."

"... You are, without a doubt." They were both geniuses, for one. They had to have shared a bond over a mutual understanding at what it was like to have such intellect, to live the way they did. The two grew up together, Mycroft was there his whole life. And only Mycroft would be able to explain what it was like to be Sherlock Holmes, because he was the closest thing the world had.

John knew what he shared with Sherlock (whatever exactly that was) would never compare to Mycroft's relationship with him. Yes, the doctor spent eighteen months practically joined at the hip with Sherlock, but Mycroft had been guiding and taking care of him since his birth. It was obvious by how the Holmes brothers had discussed their relationship how much the older of the two took care of Sherlock, especially at a younger age. John entirely believed it was Mycroft who taught him how to use his mind palace. Taught him to live with his brilliant brain. Without him, John doubted Sherlock would even have been sane by the time he reached adulthood, instead either dead or a criminal similar to Moriarty, clever enough to get away with such heinous crimes. Or maybe even, locked up in a padded cell somewhere for the remainder of his life.

"So, are you going to agree to see someone, or must I force you to do so against your will?"

"I'm assuming you already have the appointment made?"

"Tomorrow at one in the afternoon."

John sighs (he can't help it) and says simply, "I'll be there," knowing Mycroft will text him the address. He stands, leaning on the cane he again needs, and makes his way across the room. Before leaving, he adds on, as an afterthought, "But not because of you. I'm only doing this for him."

Without giving the Government Official time to respond, he opens the door and walks out, retracing the path through the house. He knows he's meant to get in the car parked patiently out front, to be taken back to the flat, presumably. But instead of getting into said car when he opens the door, he tells the driver, "Thanks, but I'd rather walk," and shuts the door before the man can protest.

It's a lie. The truth is he'd much rather be driven home (spare himself the pain of his leg), but home isn't where he's going. He has something else to take care of first.

* * *

The cemetery is just as he remembers it. Chunks of rock engraved with fading names scattered amongst dying grass, patches of it horribly withered while the rain keeps others alive and green. A permanent atmosphere of somberness and heartbreak lingers in the air, makes it seem stagnant where the breeze should create a fresh feeling. Flowers in varying stages of dying lay in symbolism of love and loss, a way of saying the unforgotten memory of their recipients lays in the hands of whomever placed them there.

Some have loved ones to replace the bundles that wait at their feet to join them in death, some do not. Does that matter though, in the end? Are the dead appreciative of the flowers left behind for them? Or are they saddened that another being was taken away from the world of the living and left to rot in an act of materialistic sentiment? The thoughts fill John with melancholy as he makes his way across the safe haven of the deceased.

His feet touch a ground that houses the bodies of those who have died. Several feet of earth cover the stench of decay, replacing it with one of fresh dirt. The newest additions are obvious; the land in front of their tombstones is lacking grass, unwatered or otherwise, and the dirt holds the rich color of being recently upturned. Only two spots look like this, the rest old enough to have at least slight tell-tale signs of vegetation.

He steps in front of one of the two graves. Walks up to the expanse of black rock, as cold and smooth as the icy gaze of the man who rests beneath it. John falters before sliding to the ground, his cane discarded on the floor beside him. Fingers trace the gold letters engraved into the headstone's surface as though the words will change beneath his fingertips, as though the name will become someone else's. It doesn't.

**Sherlock**

**Holmes**

The words are a prayer on the tip of his tongue, a plea waiting to be answered. He yearns to say the words, have them heard by their rightful owner. They don't belong to him, they never will, and that only makes John want to utter the line of elegant syllables more. Because maybe if he says them enough, in whispers when the feeling of despair hits him, in screams consumed by darkness after a nightmare, then just maybe he'll earn the right to them. And once he's earned the right to that, maybe he'll earn the right to peace.

_Sherlock Holmes_.

The words become a mantra in his head, repeating over and over again as though they may find their way home. As though the man they rightfully belong to will hear them, take them back for himself, reclaim them with the silky baritone voice John longs to hear again, if only for one last time.

"Sherlock Holmes." In this moment the words make themselves known as a whisper, carried away by the breeze right after they leave John's lips. They're all he can say. It's much too late to say what he longs to: "I need you," "You're beautiful," "I love you."

The ears there to hear those things are gone, and the sentences will never burrow their way through the ground and make it to the corpse. That's all that's worth saying to him now, but he will be forever unable to hear it.

John cannot bring himself to say it, because if he did it would become even more real, and he knows he can't handle that. He's already lost too much to have to part with even more. No, the man's name is all he says, the only sounds that escapes his throat.

And that's okay. They are beautiful, even with a broken man whispering them.

They're enough.


End file.
